


A Ring of Teeth

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biting, Bottom Dean, Coda, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>set post-mystery spot. "So, hey, fuck you, I don’t cry during sex.” wincest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ring of Teeth

“So, hey, fuck you, I don’t  _cry_ during sex.”

On the road, finally leaving Broward County in the distance, the road is long like a breath of sweet air. Sam’s never been so glad to be here; beside his brother, tyres peeling down the tarmac, reluctantly soaking up Dean’s slow, smug grin. “Please. I’ve seen you, getting all misty-eyed. I know it’s just because you love me,” he turns to Sam and his grin gets wider. Sam leans back in his seat and huffs irritably.

“I don’t love you  _that_  much.”

Dean turns back to the road but the smile is still there, pasted wide. “Sorry, Sammy, wish I could say otherwise.”

“Prove it.”

Dean barks a laugh like he’s joking, moving his hands on the wheel. “Sure, yeah, okay. Just let me pull over.”

“I’m serious!”

Dean’s gaze slides to him, careful. It’s been a couple of days; Dean’s lip is healing where Sam split it by accident a couple of days before, and Sam knows for a fact that there are still bruises on his skin that haven’t yet faded to yellow. It was fervent, rushed, messy; Dean, real, alive, in his hands. Sam was usually the instigator anyway, young enough to know what he wanted when he wanted it, but that time had been different; harder, better than it ever had been before.

Afterwards, sweat cooling on the lines of his back, Dean lay beside him and asked again, “How many Tuesdays did you  _have?”_

Now, Dean’s eyes are considering, lit with interest. He says nothing for the next couple of minutes, and when a shoulder slides into view on the highway, he pulls the car over, rolls it to a stop. “Okay,” he says, nothing else, and gets out of the driver’s seat, into the back.

Sam scrambles to join him. It is sharp, this bitter-sweetness. He’s thankful to feel this now, when he’d thought he might never again; but also, he is cautious. Terrified of the year’s end.  

They haven’t kissed in weeks. Dean used to kiss him all the time, to the degree where it was irritating, but now he turns his face away when Sam tries for it, and in an attempt to rile him, Sam has turned to biting - marking – instead.

It doesn’t work. He folds himself over Dean, crowds him into the corner of the back seat and bites down on Dean’s shoulder as the two of them work off his shirt together. It’s so easy. He doesn’t have to seduce Dean; he rarely even has to  _ask._ It is accepted, between them, that they will fuck other people and still always come home to each other; to this. Beneath his teeth Dean writhes, and cries out.

Sam sits back to look at them, tangled; he’s got one knee on the seat, one foot on the floor, one of Dean’s legs between his own. He tugs off his shirt and Dean disappears behind it for a second; when he comes back his eyes are wide, his smile still there, gaze tracking over Sam’s body, like always. He reaches out with his hands – he always does that, too.

Dean is breathing fast before Sam’s hands even reach his jeans, and he laughs softly; Dean mutters, “Prick,” in response. He leans down – Dean’s hands tighten over his hips – as he undoes his brother’s jeans, and bites him again just below his collarbone, sucking the flesh into his mouth. Dean helps him get the jeans off and his cock is there already, flushed and wet. Even in the low light, here by the roadside, Sam’s eyes can find the rings of toothmarks that litter the skin of Dean’s inner thighs, perfect, soft, purpling indents of the inside of Sam’s own mouth. He ignores Dean’s dick, for the moment, and runs his hands down Dean’s legs, pressing against the bites with his thumbs. Dean tenses and gasps his name; pre-come blurts from his dick, as if pushed from within him with the sound.

He holds Dean’s knees in his hands – moves them up to his hips, touches him between his legs, careful and more gently than usual, while Dean’s hands dig crescents into the flesh either side of his spine. Circling his fist around Dean’s dick he pulls once, twice, soft and slow, more to catalogue than to please;  _this is my brother, this is the root of him, he is alive._ It’s hard to forget, even in this moment when Dean is so hotly, evidentially alive, what he looked like pasted to a sidewalk; what he looked like at the mercy of Sam’s own hands.

He’s at their mercy again, now, but this time it’s not an accident.

“Sammy,” Sam looks at his face again and realises Dean has his eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back against the seat. “Sammy, for god’s sake,” he breathes, and Sam doesn’t feel like making him say ‘fuck me’ – not today, anyway.

Sometimes Dean will ask him to breach him with nothing but fingers and spit, drag the digits inside him, make him feel it. He grabs for Sam’s fingers, now, and shifts his body down against the seat, legs spread wide, so Sam can see the furl of skin around his hole. Dean pushes Sam’s hand hard against his open mouth and sucks on his fingers, eyes slipping closed, making soft, desperate noise. Sam curls his fingers inside Dean’s mouth; enamel scrapes against the pads of them; he feels the thick, wet wrap of Dean’s tongue.

When Dean lets him withdraw them, finally, they’re soaking wet; he wastes no time pushing Sam’s hand between his legs, and before he knows it Dean is speared on his spit-slick finger, first one, then two, then Dean’s heels screeching on the leather, then Dean muttering, “Sammy, now,  _Sam,”_ Sam withdraws them – Dean chuckles relief from somewhere deep in his belly – but he swipes his fingers through the mess of pre-come pooling in Dean’s navel before pushing them back inside. He bends his head to lick at where his fingers are pushed tight, stretching, and Dean lifts a leg to kick his shoulder with a weary, not very convincing, “Ugh, don’t fucking do that.”

Dean has to kick him away with his heels, cursing at him, before Sam will rear up and actually do it; he leans on the seatback behind his brother, hand spread wide, using the other to undo his jeans, get himself out, slowly inch the head of his dick inside. Dean hisses softly; Sam, distracted by how fucking warm he is, always; by how it feels to be held by him, like that; barely registers Dean’s soft, apologetic curse. He’s only halfway in, still inching forward, when Dean throws his head back and comes, spurting wet over his own chest, hands clenching on Sam’s flesh hard enough to hurt. He sags against the seat with Sam still inside him, and when he finally opens his eyes Sam finds it hard not to laugh.

“That’s never happened before,” he murmurs, truthfully, trying to disguise his mirth – Dean moves his hands, slipping them down to grab at his ass, to pull him deeper.

“Shut the fuck up. C’mon.” With his hands and his heels, lifting his legs to wrap them around Sam as best he can, he pulls Sam in deeper, body shaking as the last of his orgasm trembles out of him, smearing sticky all over the two of them, dick going soft to lay over his thigh.

“You still want to?”

“Yeah, I still want to,” Dean mutters irritably, and grips his ass tighter, “C’mon. Show me what you got.”

He loses himself in it. Dean is grunting beneath him in a way that speaks more of pain than of joy but is no less desperate, and he can feel all of them; every drag of himself inside Dean, every syllable of his name that Dean huffs against his cheek. He wonders if he can feel the movements of Dean’s heart; opens his mouth over it, below the tattoo, and bites down hard enough to break the skin. Blood wells, thin and bright, from the small, curved lines of his teeth.

Dean is there the whole time; gripping him, pulling him back when he pulls out, reaching a hand up to fist it in the hair at the back of Sam’s head. He pulls Sam’s face towards him when he starts to stutter; when his breath gets mismanaged, sloppy. Sam comes inside him, shaking, and in that same moment Dean seals their mouths together, chokes his name.

Sam bites down, hard, on his lip, and it breaks open again; blood trips off his lower lip; drops in Sam’s mouth, drips over his chin, flesh swelling. As Sam grips him everywhere he can – the back of his neck, his shoulder, his arm – a drop of red splashes thick onto Dean’s chest.

He has his eyes squeezed shut in the moments after, and when he opens them Dean’s face is wet.

He can’t help it – he says Dean’s name, again, and pulls out of him, holds his face between his hands, climbs over him as best he can, wary only now of the cars speeding past the window, the people who might see them. “Did I hurt you?”

“What?” Dean’s voice comes as a mumble, at first, but he shoves Sam roughly off him, into the footwell, in the next second. “Fuck. No.  _Fuck.”_ He’s a mess; there’s blood on his chest and his lip is smeared when he wipes at it with the back of his hand. He’s covered in come; his chest, the thatch of hair between his legs, dripping out of him, all over the car leather. Like the blood from the bites, his eyes well with tears.

For a moment Dean just sits there; Sam stares up at him from the floor, jeans tangled around his knees. As if his mind is absent, Dean sits up properly on the seat.

It might be funny in any other context; Dean, sitting bare-assed and leaking come all over the seats of his precious car; but the car might be Sam’s soon, and that sucks anything funny right out.

Dean reaches a hand between his own legs and presses his thumb, hard, against the base, round marks of an older bite. His chest looks angry red.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers, devoid of other words, but Dean doesn’t even look at him.

“It’s okay. It’s not you.” He sniffs. Sam does his best to ignore it.

Dean reaches for his jeans – Sam passes them to him. The silence between them stretches, aching, until the highway seems small by comparison.

As Dean struggles to clothe himself, Sam just stares at him. When Dean gets his shirt back on the blood stains it in a circle, like stonehenge from above; like a ritual mark.

He wipes his mouth again, wrenches the car door open and stumbles from the car, then looks back at Sam. “Are you coming?”

Sam eyes the mess on the seat; his mess, that came from Dean.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his own shirt back on; struggling to pull up his jeans.

Within moments they’re back in their seats again, in the front of the car; but Dean is still bleeding and the car stinks, heavy, with blood and sex.

They pull away, back onto the highway, and Sam wonders if he should say it.

_See?_

The world seems indistinct, a different place, so quickly flipped.

Dean’s lip will probably need stitches.

_I didn’t cry._

Dean scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve. It’s probably best to say nothing at all. 


End file.
